Two days before Christmas,
with the scent of ginger in the air,
the 7 year old weighed in
while making cookies,
"That Santa Claus at school
was a fake."
Snow swirled outside the window.
My wife stopped stirring, and the lights
on the tree momentarily dimmed.
"Why is that," I asked.
"His belt was different
than when I saw him before."
"I think it was the real Mrs. Claus, though."
"Right on," I said, as my wife
went back to stirring the dry ingredients.
She and I glanced at one another, and
smiled weakly, with the knowledge
that we are now on borrowed time.
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